953 


UC-NRLF 


B   3   315   ml 


Easver-Song 

Clinton  Scollard 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

califok^^.-. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/eastersonglyricsOOscolrich 


Easter-Song 


Eas'uer-Sokg 

Lyrics  and  ^allads  of 
^he  Joy  of  Spring -time 

CUKTOtK   SC0LLA%D 


Clinton,    New  York: 

George  William  Browning 


Copyrighted  igo6  by  Clinton  ScoUard 


^5^3 

S^3^ 

^U)L.A^ 

CONTENTS 

A  Madrigal 

7 

The  Barren  Easter 

8 

In  a  Winter  Wood 

11 

The  Minstrels 

12 

Dew-Flowers 

14 

Children  of  the  Morn 

15 

A  Song 

16 

The  Tourney 

17 

Flower  and  Soul 

18 

The  Outland  Lure 

19 

The  Preceptor 

20 

The  Stream 

21 

The  Leaf 

22 

The  Olden  Way 

23 

Saint  Rosaline 

25 

April  Promise 

27 

I  Lean  Sunward 

29 

The  Pillow 

30 

Horizons 

32 

The  Spirit 

33 

The  Rocks  of  Chance 

34 

The  Praise-Fire 

35 

Heart  o'  Mine 

36 

The  Pine 

37 

A  Canticle 

38 

Now  That  the  Birds  Come  Back 

39 

The  Vale 

41 

Song  for  Easter  Mornmg 

42 

The  Garth 

43 

The  Easter  Walk 

44 

The  Path 

45 

The  Search 

46 

iv565S4-G8 


CONTENTS 

CONTINUED 

Among  the  Hills 

47 

The  Healing  of  the  Wood 

48 

The  Quest 

49 

The  Green  o'  the  Year 

50 

Patchwork 

51 

The  Weavers 

52 

A  Legend  of  Normandy 

53 

Life 

59 

Sorcery 

60 

Granther  Time 

61 

The  Thrall 

62 

In  Sanctuary 

64 

Let  lis  take  leave  of  haste  awhile, 

And  loiter  well  content 
With  little  pleasure  to  beguile, 

And  small  habiliment ;  — 

Just  a  wide  sweep  of  rain-washed  sky, 

A  flower,  a  bird-note  sweet ; 
Some  easy  trappings  worn  awry  ; 

Loose  latchets  for  our  feet ; 

A  wheaten  loaf  within  our  scrip  ; 

For  drink  the  hillside  spring. 
And  for  true  heart-companionship 

The  love  of  loitering. 

We  want  so  much,  and  yet  we  need 

So  very  slight  a  store. 
But  in  the  age's  grip  of  greed 

We  hurry  more  and  more. 

The  woodland  weaves  its  gold-green  net ; 

The  warm  wind  la\es  by ; 
Can  we  forego?  can  we  forget? 

Come,  comrade,  let  us  try  ! 


A    Madrigal 

Easter-glow  and  Easter-gleam ! 

Lyric  laughter  from  the  stream 

That  between  its  banks  so  long 

Murmured  such  a  cheerless  song; 

Stirrings  faint  and  fine  and  thin 

Every  woodsy  place  within ; 

Root  and  tendril,  bough  and  bole, 

Rousing  with  a  throb  of  soul ; 

The  old  ecstasy  awake 

In  the  briar  and  in  the  brake ; 

Blue-bird  raptures  —  dip  and  run  — 

And  the  robin-antiphon  ; 

Tingling  air  and  trembling  earth, 

And  the  crystal  cup  of  mirth 

Brimmed  and  lifted  to  the  lip 

For  each  one  of  us  to  sip. 

Dream  !  —  'tis  something  more  than  dream, 

Easter-glow  and  Easter-gleam  ! 

Prescience  'tis,  and  prophecy 

Of  the  wonder  that  shall  be 

When  the  spirit  leaps  to  light 

After  death's  hiemal  night ! 


The    Barren    Easter 

It  was  the  barren  Easter, 

And  o'er  Pamello  plain, 
Where'er  the  sweeping  eye  might  rove, 
From  beechen  grove  to  beechen  grove. 

Greened  neither  grass  nor  grain. 

It  was  the  barren  Easter; 

By  vale  and  windy  hill, 
Where  blossoms  tossed  on  yester  year. 
Now  bourgeoned  no  narcissus  spear. 

And  glowed  no  daffodil. 

It  was  the  barren  Easter, 

And  toward  the  grinding-floor, 
A  store  of  wheat  within  his  pack, 
Along  the  dreary  meadow-track 
Went  good  Saint  Isadore. 

It  was  the  barren  Easter, 

And  when  the  sweet  saint  came 
To  where  a  mighty  live-oak  spread, 
A  host  of  wrens  and  starlings  red 

Seemed  crying  out  his  name. 


It  was  the  barren  Easter, 

And  to  his  ears  their  cry 
Rang  plaintively,  "  O  Isadore, 
Grant  us  thy  pity,  we  implore ! 

Give  succor,  or  we  die  !" 

It  was  the  barren  Easter 

When  wide  he  flung  his  store, 
And  all  the  feathered  folk  of  air 
Sped  whirring  downward  for  their  share 
From  kind  Saint  Isadore. 

It  was  the  barren  Easter, 

And  onward  to  the  mill 
Along  the  dreary  meadow-track, 
The  empty  bags  within  his  pack. 

The  good  saint  plodded  still. 

It  was  the  barren  Easter; 

He  scarce  knew  why  he  went, 
Save  that  he  did  not  dare  return 
To  face  his  master,  grim  and  stern, 

Now  all  the  grain  was  spent. 


It  was  the  barren  Easter; 

When  at  the  miller's  feet 
He  cast  the  sacks  in  dull  despair. 
Behold,  he  saw  them  open  there 

Abrim  with  golden  wheat ! 

It  was  the  barren  Easter; 

Oh,  meager  are  men's  words 
To  tell  how  He  who  rose  that  day, 
And  drove  the  wraith  of  Death  away. 

Helped  him  who  fed  the  birds ! 


10 


In    a    Winter    Wood 

Into  a  winter  wood 

At  the  crest  of  the  morn  1  went ; 

The  pine-tree  stood  like  a  tent 

Of  ermine,  feathery  soft ; 

The  hemlock  wore  a  hood  ; 

And  many  another  bole, 

Towering  far  aloft. 

Was  wrapt  in  a  samite  stole. 

A  gentle  whispering 
Seemed  wafted  from  tree  to  tree. 
Like  a  broken  melody 
Chorded  tender  and  low; 
We  are  gossiping  of  Spring," 
Said  a  birch,  with  a  friendly  nod, 
Of  how  we  will  joy  when  the  snow 
Will  let  us  look  on  the  sod  !  " 

Then  came  a  truant  crow 
With  a  lusty,  rusty  note, 
And  a  squirrel,  sleek  of  coat. 
With  his  chirrup  ever  glad  ; 
So  we  all  chimed  in,  and  oh, 
What  a  cheery,  chattering, 
Frolicsome  time  we  had 
Just  gossiping  of  Spring ! 


11 


The    Minstrels 

All  through  the  spring-time  day, 

Till  the  purple  even-fall, 
Rang  from  the  willow  spray 

The  blackbird's  clamorous  call ; 
But  the  mist  has  mounted  high 

Over  the  western  steep. 
And  we  list  to  another  cry 

With  its  "peep  !  peep  !  peep  !  " 

Thus  saith  the  wistful  song 

Of  the  tuneful  minstrel  band, — 
"  We  have  lain  in  exile  long 

In  a  white  and  lonely  land  ; 
We  have  lain  us  languishing 

In  a  dreary,  death-like  sleep, 
But  now  through  the  gates  of  Spring 

Do  we  ' peep  !  peep  !  peep  ! '" 

"  What  therein  do  we  see  ? 

Life  at  its  vernal  flood, — 
The  tremors  of  the  tree 

As  it  bursts  the  sheath  of  the  bud  ; 
The  flight  of  the  meadow-lark 

Where  the  pasture  paths  are  deep : 
This,  and  more,  do  we  mark 

As  we  '  peep  !  peep  !  peep  ! ' " 


12 


'  All  beauty  we  descry 

In  the  lowly  heart  of  things; 
The  moth  and  the  butterfly 

With  the  pollen  on  their  wings  ; 
The  grain  by  the  river  shore 

That  soon  will  be  ripe  to  reap  ; 
This  do  we  see,  and  more, 

As  we  'peep  !  peep  !  peep  ! '  " 

'  And  man  who  walketh  the  earth, 

Lusty,  or  faint  of  breath  ; 
Lads  who  are  loud  in  mirth, 

The  old  who  are  sad  at  death  ; 
Man,  the  bond  or  the  free, 

Who  to  the  grave  doth  creep. 
Him  do  we  ever  see 

As  we  'peep  !  peep  !  peep  ! '  " 

Such  is  the  minstrels'  song, 

Such  is  the  minstrels'  cry, 
From  the  bough-tops  where  they  throng 

As  the  south-wind  whispers  by. 
The  clock-tower's  silvery  strain 

Telleth  the  night  grows  deep. 
But  still  that  clear  refrain 

With  its  "  peep  !  peep  !  peep  !  " 


13 


Dew-Flowers 

11-iere's  a  waste  of  sand  unpathed  and  arid 

In  the  land  beside  the  sunset  sea. 
Where  no  foot  of  man  has  ever  tarried 

Save  to  rest  for  all  eternity. 

Over  it  the  skies  show  rainless  reaches  ; 

Blown  about,  it  lies,  by  scorching;  breath  ; 
Barren  is  it  as  the  ocean's  beaches, 

And  they  call  the  place  ''the  Vale  of  Death. 

Yet,  so  strange  is  nature's  chrismal  order, 
Ere  the  range  of  peaks  that  round  it  tower 

Flash  the  dawn  across  its  dismal  border, 
Lo,  it  flushes  into  tender  flower  ! 

For  the  dews  adown  the  night-winds  drifted 
Mingle  with  the  brown  and  sterile  earth, 

And,  by  some  miraculous  urgance  gifted, 
Bring  this  marvelment  of  bloom  to  birth. 

Briefly  lift  these  flowers  their  fragile  faces. 
For  when  dowers  the  vale  the  blaze  of  day. 

As  ephemeral  as  frost's  filmy  laces, 
Into  nothingness  they  fade  away. 

Spreads  afar  once  more  the  desert  glooming, 
Like  a  shore  with  desolation  rife ;  — 

Aye,  and  who  has  not  beheld  them  blooming,- 
These  dew-flowers  upon  the  wastes  of  life ! 
14 


Children    of   the    Morn 

We  are  the  children  of  the  morn, 
Bred  of  its  dewy  loam  and  wind  ; 

Yet  as  we  journey,  gay  or  lorn. 
We  leave  the  morning  far  behind. 

Before  we  ken  our  grievous  loss, 
Behold  the  noon  is  zenith  high  ! 

And  each  one,  with  his  care  for  cross, 
Toils  on  beneath  the  flaming  sky. 

Fleetly  the  golden  hours  decline 

With  swift,  sure  lapsing  of  the  light ; 

Along  the  west  a  crimson  line, 

The  quiet  eve,  and  then  the  night !  — 

The  night,  and  sleep,  —  the  long,  long  sleep,- 
Untroubled  by  a  dream  of  pain  ! 

O  far  beyond  the  darkness  deep 
Shall  we  not  find  the  morn  again.? 


15 


A    Song 

O'er  the  hill  the  plangent  west-wind  dirges; 

Deeply  shrouded  is  each  meadow-way  ; 
Night  in  day,  and  day  in  night-time  merges 

In  monotony  of  white  and  gray  ; 

Rainbow-gold  of  promise,  —  not  a  ray  ! 
Desolation  rules  with  icy  sway  ! 

Swing,  O  planets,  on  your  shining  courses  ! 
Bear  us  past  the  wintry  woe  and  pain  ! 

Work  your  wonder,  O  ye  vernal  forces, 
Let  us  hear  it  throbbing  through  the  rain,- 
The  old  tender  and  ecstatic  strain ! 
April  and  the  blue-bird  back  again  ! 


16 


The   Tourney 

What  time  the  falchion  of  the  sun 
Clove  through  the  morning  mists, 

The  trumpets  blared  right  merrily, 

And  two  gay  knights  armed  cap-a-pie, 

The  very  flower  of  chivalry, 
Rode  out  into  the  lists. 

And  one  was  all  bedight  in  white 

From  gleaming  helm  to  greaves. 
The  other's  shield  showed  golden  sheen, 
With  bars  of  emerald  shot  between, 
The  while  his  armor  glistered  green 
As  the  unfolding  leaves. 

They  splintered  lance  on  couched  lance 

Amid  applausive  cries, 
They  battled  without  jeer  or  mock ; 
Both  seemed  as  firm  as  is  the  rock ; 
And  echoes  of  their  conflict-shock 

Went  reeling  up  the  skies. 

Then  suddenly  the  snowy  plume 
Slipped  crashing  down  amain  ; 

The  victor  heard  the  plaudits  ring; 

We  saw  him  back  his  vizor  fling, — 

And  lo,  the  triumph  smile  of  Spring 
Above  the  Winter  slain  ! 

17 


Flower   and    Soul 

Thus  saith  the  flower;  — 
I  wait  the  perfect  hour, 
Then  will  I  wake, 
And  into  blossom  break, 
Bright-wooed  and  won 
By  my  lord-lover,  Sun !  " 

My  soul  saith  ;  —  ''  Like  the  flower, 

I  wait  the  perfect  hour; 

Then  out  of  gloom 

Into  ecstatic  bloom 

1  will  be  straightway  won 

By  Faith's  bright  sun  !  " 


18 


The    Outland    Lure 

Who  bides  beneath  a  roof  to-day, 
If  he  may  set  his  foot  abroad 

Along  the  woodsy  outland  way, 
Is  little  better  than  a  clod  ! 

There  is  no  thing  in  all  the  land 
That  does  not  seem  articulate ; 

The  grasses  smile,  and  understand 
The  vireo  calling  to  his  mate. 

Tall  pine-tops  unto  pine-tops  breathe 
In  sighings  murmurous  as  the  sea ; 

And  through  the  birchen  copse  beneath 
There  runs  a  fluting  harmony. 

In  the  half-dusks  of  tangled  green 
The  pale  wild-rose's  censer  burns. 

And  in  each  hollow  may  be  seen 
The  fragile  laceries  of  ferns. 

While  over  all,  for  all  to  share, 

Placid  and  pure  and  wide  and  high, 

Mist-winnowed  by  the  searching  air. 
Broods  motherly  God's  open  sky. 

Then  grip  the  oak-staff,  ye  who  may. 
And  set  the  pilgrim  foot  abroad  ! 

Who,  willing,  bides  within  to-day 
Is  little  better  than  a  clod  ! 
19 


The   Preceptor 

I  set  my  eyes  on  the  face  of  Duty ; 

"  Master,"  I  said,  ''  let  be  !    let  be  ! 
Life  will  lose  all  its  golden  beauty 


Ah,  but  the  ways  that  we  trod  were  weary  ! 

Ah,  but  the  paths  that  we  followed  long  ! 
Dreary  the  span  of  the  sky,  and  eerie 

The  sound  of  every  song. 

And  yet,  as  though  through  some  chrismic  wonder. 

After  the  lapsing  of  sunless  days. 
The  grim  gray  veil  seemed  to  melt  and  sunder 

Like  the  rifted  morning  haze. 

Then  I  set  my  eyes  on  the  face  of  Duty  ; 

''  Master,"  I  said,  ''at  last  I  see 
That  life  has  gained  a  more  hallowed  beauty 
Since  I  have  followed  thee ! " 


20 


The    Stream 

Far  in  a  forest's  ferny  fastnesses 

It  bursts  from  under-earth,  brims  a  dim  pool, 
Leaps  down  a  ledge,  then,  glinting  clear  and  cool, 

Darts  from  the  shrouding  shadows  of  the  trees. 

It  cleaves  both  marsh  and  mead,  by  slow  degrees 
Widening  and  deepening;  owns  the  sway  and  rule 
Of  curbing  circumstance,  though  not  its  tool, 

Joining  the  calm  of  the  unplumbed  seas. 

Thus  with  the  current  of  our  lives,  so  small 
In  its  unknown  beginnings,  waxing  great 

As  it  goes  winding  through  the  stress  of  years. 
Guided  by  some  divine,  o'er-brooding  Fate, 
Until  it  joins  the  ocean  that  we  call 

Eternity,  beyond  God's  swinging  spheres. 


21 


The    Leaf 

Know  you  of  au^ht  more  lovely  than  the  leaf 
When  it  escapes  the  bud, —  the  virginal  green 
Catching  the  sunlight,  taking  to  itself 
A  delicate  shimmer  from  the  sun's  warm  gold? 
Its  softest  touch  reserves  for  it  the  wind; 
Its  warmest  raindrop  sends  the  kindly  cloud  ; 
Thus  is  it  gently  nurtured  by  the  Spring. 
Years  come  and  go,  and  still  the  mothering 
As  on  the  first  exultant:  bourgeoning-tide, 
Mysterious,  full  of  sweetnesses,  and  all 
The  old  earth's  elemental  loveliness. 

As  beauteously  let  thou  some  leaf  have  birth 
Within  the  soul,— some  vernal  shoot  of  love. 
Of  faith,  of  pity,  or  fair  charity ! 


22 


The    Olden    Way 

When  by  the  ingle-side  I  sit, — 
However  it  may  be  by  day, — 

And  shades  are  drawn,  and  lights  are  lit, 
My  heart  goes  back  the  olden  way; 

Goes  back  along  the  paths  I  trod 
In  that  far,  fair,  unfettered  time 

When  my  young  feet  were  ardor-shod, 
And  the  sun  rose  and  set  to  rhyme. 

The  hill-crests  call  to  me ;  I  mount 
Through  open  beech  and  maple  aisles, 

Where  a  pellucid  forest  fount 

Slips  dimpling  down  with  lyric  smiles. 

A  pasture  reach  where  mandrake-moons 
Are  half  leaf-hid  I  cross,  and  there 

I  chase  the  tiny  seed-balloons 
The  dandelions  toss  in  air. 

Then  I  plunge  thicket-ward,  and  win 
Through  many  a  briary  dip  and  turn, 

Drinking  the  hale  aromas  in 

From  bruised  bark  and  trampled  fern. 


23 


On  and  yet  on  with  vernal  thews 
I  swing,  nor  do  I  pause,  forsooth  ! 

Why  should  I,  when  I  have  to  use 

The  brimmed,  immortal  cruse  of  Youth  ! 

And  not  until  I  cap  the  height, 
With  my  hewn  staff  of  hickory. 

Do  I  drain  all  the  deep  delight 

The  sweet  Earth-Mother  willed  to  me. 

The  height  !  —  Ah,  immemorial  hills, 
Fresh  with  the  dawn-wind  and  the  dew, 

My  heart,  when  day's  loud  turmoil  stills, 
Yearns  ever,  ever  back  to  you  ! 

Spire  after  golden  sunset  spire 

Crumbles,  or  fades  to  somber  gray ;  — 
O  hills,  from  out  the  ingle-fire 

Beckon  me  still  the  olden  way  ! 


24 


Saint    Rosaline 

'Twas  Rosaline,  the  austere  Prince's  daughter, 
The  fairest  of  the  land's  fair  maiden  flowers. 

In  that  old  town  beside  the  Neckar  water 

Whose  walls  are  tiaraed  with  a  score  of  towers. 

Beloved  she  was  throughout  the  great  grim  castle 
Wherein  her  smile  was  like  a  golden  ray ; 

Worshiped  she  was  by  varlet  and  by  vassal, 

When  through  the  narrow  streets  she  took  her  way. 

It  chanced  that  famine  sore  had  gripped  the  people. 
And  though  bright  vernal  light  touched  heights  and 
dells, 

The  chimes  that  rang  reverberant  from  each  steeple 
Seemed  like  the  mockery  of  Easter  bells. 

For  scarce  a  crust  had  many  for  the  morrow, 
And  to  make  still  more  piteous  their  pain, 

The  Prince  decreed  no  needy  hand  should  borrow 
From  the  state  granaries  the  accustomed  grain. 

Yet  did  the  daughter  of  this  heartless  master 

Creep  in  where  bins  gleamed  amber  to  the  view, 

At  soul  determined  to  avert  disaster 

If  it  be  but  from  the  most  wretched  few. 


25 


As  forth  she  stole,  and  soui^ht  a  shadowed  byway. 
Bearing  her  basket  with  its  covered  grain, 

Back  from  his  worship  up  the  crowded  highway 
The  Prince  came  winding  with  his  Easter  train. 

Ere  she  could  speed  his  searching  gaze  had  caught  her, 
Suspicion  kindling  as  she  turned  to  flee; 

Although  'twas  clear  the  damsel  was  his  daughter. 
Should  he  evade  his  duty?     Nay,  not  he  ! 

With  all  the  majesty  that  rank  imposes, 
He  bade  her  bare  her  burden  to  the  view ; 

The  basket  lid  she  lifted,  and  lo, —  roses! 
Roses  irradiant,  fresh  as  dawn  with  dew  ! 

Shamed  by  the  wondrous  sign,  the  Prince  besought  her 
To  say  that  none  henceforth  through  want  should 
pine ; 

And  to  this  day  the  rigorous  ruler's  daughter 
In  praise  and  prayer  is  called  —  Saint  Rosaline. 


26 


April    Promise 

March  is  no  more  ! 

Her  blasts  so  chill  and  frore 

Around  far  norland  capes  and  headlands  roar. 

The  skies  we  now  behold 

Are  tempered  by  the  sun's  effulgent  jjold  ; 

And  faint,  fine  sounds  disclose 

That,  in  the  sod  and  mould. 

The  spirit  of  the  spring-time  stirs  and  o;lows. 

'Tis  April,  and  the  willow  leans  to  look 

And  see  within  the  brook 

Its  fair,  new  garniture  of  palest  green  ; 

'Tis  April,  and  the  maple-buds  are  red. 

While  in  the  elms  o'erhead 

The  leaf-elves  have  begun  to  weave  a  screen 

That  will  in  June-time  throw 

A  wavering  shadow  on  the  lawn  below  ; 

'Tis  April,  and  a  thousand  ice-freed  rills 

Furrow  a  thousand  hills  ; 

The  wheat  has  pierced  the  loam, 

And  where  the  orchards  soon  the  pinky  foam 

Of  blossom-seas  will  toss, 

The  spiders  fling  their  filmy  webs  across. 


27 


There  is  a  throb  in  every  river  reed ; 

A  subtile  essence  in  each  wayside  weed 

Quickens  its  dormant  root, 

And  bids  it  upward  toward  the  sunlight  shoot ; 

The  trillium  knows 

That  southern  slopes  no  longer  harbor  snows; 

The  armored  snail 

On  dry,  dead  grasses  leaves  a  shining  trail ; 

The  robber  rooks  out-caw  their  mawkish  strains 

Above  corn-planted  plains  ; 

The  winds  are  winds  of  promise,  on  whose  wings 

Come  countless  breathings,  endless  whisperings 

Of  bursting  beauty  in  all  germinant  things. 

What  joy  is  here, 

In  the  foreknowledge  that  the  youthful  year 

Through  spires  of  constant  change  the  bud  will  bring 

To  full  fruition  and  fair  perfecting  ! 

Who  wills,  may  con  a  higher  prophecy 

Of  harvests  yet  to  be  ;  — 

What  the  October  of  our  lives  will  yield 

If  seeds  be  sown  in  April's  fertile  field. 


28 


I    Lean    Sunward 

1  lean  sunward  all  the  year, — 
Copses  green  or  copses  sere, 
Time  of  rose  or  time  of  rime, 
Tree-toad  chirp  or  cricket  chime  ! 

I  lean  sunward  ;   in  my  veins 
Ichor  runs  and  ardor  reigns, 
Lifting  me,  upon  my  course, 
Toward  light's  elemental  source. 

I  lean  sunward  ;   may  there  be 
Something  that  shall  buoyance  me, 
When  life's  varied  race  be  run, 
To  the  Light  behind  the  sun  ! 


29 


The    Pillow 

Out  of  the  earth  have  1  made  me  a  pillow. 

Smoothed  it  and  mossed  it  and  grassed  it  well  over ; 
Under  the  tremulous  leaves  of  the  willow, 
Lo,  it  is  there  I  have  made  me  a  pillow, 
Down  where  the  rillet  runs  by  like  a  rover, 
And  the  bees  quaff  deep  from  the  sweet  white  clover  ! 

Sooth,  there  is  much  both  to  lean  and  to  listen  to, — 
Twitter  of  wrens  and  the  warble  of  thrushes ; 

Bosom  and  throat  how  they  quiver  and  glisten,  too ! 

Mellower  music  nowhere  will  you  listen  to ; 
Trills  that  are  golden  and  silvery  gushes. 
And  the  brook  meanwhile  making  love  to  the  rushes. 

Day-time  or  night-time,  noon-time  or  moon-time. 
Ever  there's  something  to  lure  me  and  hold  me ; 

You  know  the  charm  that  there  is  in  the  June-time ! 

(  Day-time  or  night-time,  noon-time  or  moon-time ; ) 
Such  is  the  magic  that  seems  to  enfold  me, 
Play  on  my  spirit,  re-fashion,  re-mould  me. 


30 


Bough-sway  above  me,  and  reed-sway  below  me, 
And  gentle  leaf-laughter  around  and  about  me ; 

Crickets,  cicadas,  and  katydids  know  me  ; 

Tinkles  and  trebles  above  and  below  me ; 

Just  the  old  earth-joy  the  clear  voices  shout  me ; 
If  there  is  happier  haven  I  doubt  me  ! 

Yea,  on  the  breast  of  the  loving  all-mother, 
Lo,  it  is  there  I  a  pillow  have  made  me ; 

Soothe  can  she,  lull  can  she,  more  than  another, — 

She  the  all-bountiful,  beautiful  mother ; 

O  that  her  peace,  with  its  healing,  may  aid  me. 
When,  at  the  last,  on  her  breast  they  have  laid  me ! 


31 


Horizons. 

Who  harbors  Hatred,  sees  a  small 
And  closing  cincture  hold  him  thrall. 

Who  glooming  Envy  entertains, 
Has  narrowing  sky-lines  for  his  pains. 

Who  makes  perpetual  friend  of  Doubt, 
Marks  dwarfing  vistas  round  about. 

But  he  whose  bosom  Love  hath  found, 
Is  by  no  cramped  horizons  bound. 


32 


The    Spirit 

I  am  the  spirit  that  broods 

In  the  hush  of  the  winter  woods ; 

Not  of  cold  but  of  fire 

Is  the  pulse  of  my  desire  ; 

You  would  not  dream  me  kin 

To  April's  lyric  thrall, 
And  yet  my  passionate  voice  is  twin 

To  the  blue-bird's  luring  call. 

I  am  the  fervor  fine 

That  thrills  the  vein  of  the  vine ; 

And  one  day  it  will  be  I, 

My  quickening  potency, 

That  shall  kindle  a  golden  glow 

In  the  snow  of  the  lily's  core. 
And  set  the  lip  of  the  rose  a-blow 

Where  the  garden  slopes  to  the  shore. 

I  slumber  but  to  wake, 

And  I  brood  but  to  swell  and  break ; 

In  my  silence  there  lies 

The  shaping  of  destinies. 

A  whisper  breathes,  and  hark  !  — 

Mystery,  melody,  mirth  ! 
Out  of  the  depths  of  the  dearth  and  dark 

A  glory  over  the  earth  ! 


33 


The    Rocks    of    Chance 

O  ye  who  drive  upon  the  rocks  of  Chance, 
Or  drift  upon  the  shoals  of  Circumstance, 
Or  fail  to  reach  the  port  of  high  emprise 
Through,  on  Life's  seas,  some  patient  sacrifice, 
Who,  following  Duty's  beacon  o'er  the  main, 
Love's  golden  galleon  mark  another  gain. 
Take  heart !  None  knows  how  fair  the  meed  may  be 
In  God's  green  islands  of  Eternity  ! 


34 


The    Praise  -  Fire 

In  the  wild  Saxon  woodland  ways  of  old, 
On  Easter  eve  did  they  upheap  a  pyre, 
And,  at  the  stroke  of  midnight,  touch  with  fire 

The  gathered  fagots,  till  on  high  uprolled 

The  mighty  flame-tongues,  lighting  wood  and  wold  . 
Then  rose  strong  voices  in  a  prayerful  choir 
Chanting  His  praises,  and  their  deep  desire 

To  be  as  lambs  within  His  sheltered  fold. 

In  fancy,  down  the  avenues  of  years. 

As  down  the  darkling  Saxon  forest  aisles. 
The  firelight  flashes  and  the  song  beguiles ; 
And  lo,  the  flame  that  falls  upon  the  eyes, 
The  while  Hope's  paean  thrills  our  eager  ears, 

.  Is  Faith's  bright  torch  that  lights  the  centuries! 


35 


Heart    o'    Mine 

All  along  the  valleys,  through  the  beechen  alleys 
Little  silvery  sallies  set  the  blood  athrill ; 

Now  bleak  days  are  over,  we  may  play  the  rover, 
Heart  o'  mine,  heart  o'  mine,  footing  where  we  will ! 

iMarry,  there's  no  curing  for  the  old  alluring 

Gypsy-thrall  that  masters  us  when  the  thrushes  trill ! 

We  must  out  at  bloom  of  day,  wandering  till  gloom 
of  day, 
Heart  o'  mine,  heart  o'  mine,  straying  where  we  will  ! 

Care, —  'tis  fled  afar  from  us,  distant  as  a  star  from  us  ; 

We've  a  bliss  to  bar  from  us  everything  of  ill ; 
Dreams  come  true  at  last  to  us,  woe  and  winter  past 
to  us. 

Heart  o'  mine,  heart  o'  mine,  faring  where  we  will  ! 


36 


The    Pine 

Yon  pine  that  pinnacles  the  height, 

And  meets  the  tempest's  stress  and  sting, 

Stands,  in  the  vast  white  reach  of  light, 
As  green  as  in  the  flush  of  Spring. 

Thus  would  I  have  my  heart  abide 
Through  age's  wintry  tyranny, 

Proof  against  turn  of  time  and  tide, 
Forever  vernal  like  the  tree. 


37 


A    Canticle 

Once  more  is  the  woodland  ringing 

With  buoyant  mirth  ; 
Once  more  are  the  green  shoots  springing 

From  under-earth  ; 
Out  of  the  gates  of  glooming, — 

The  depths  of  dole, — 
Like  a  bud  unto  its  blooming. 

Rise  thou,  my  soul  ! 

Once  more  there  are  lyrics  lifted 

From  all  the  rills; 
Once  more  there  is  warm  light  sifted 

On  God's  fair  hills. 
Out  of  the  slough  of  sadness. 

Again  made  whole. 
Into  the  glow  of  gladness 

Rise  thou,  my  soul  ! 

Once  more  the  exultant  spirit 

Through  nature  runs ; 
Once  more  from  heaven  to  hear  it 

Lean  stars  and  suns. 
Freed  from  thy  wintry  prison. 

Seek  thou  the  goal 
Of  Christ,  the  re-arisen, 

My  soul,  my  soul  ! 


38 


Now    That   the    Birds    Come    Back 

Now  that  the  birds  come  back, 

How  thrills  the  rejuvenant  heart  to  be  alive  ! 
Bluebird  and  black, 

And  many  a  fair,  full-throated  feathered  fellow 
In  sober  brown  or  in  sun-borrowed  yellow. 

In  every  close  they  thrive, — 
Orchard  or  garden,  or  in  bosky  deeps. 
Or  by  the  rill's  marge  where  the  willow  weeps. 

Behold  old  Sorrow  gone ! 

Now  with  each  soft  rose-flowering  of  the  dawn 
Joy  lyrics  with  the  robin  and  the  wren  ; 
We  have  won  once  again 

Some  of  the  sweet  enchantment  that  they  knew, 

Who  quaffed  from  wells  Arcadian  long  ago. 
And  let  the  days  slip  by 
With  the  recurrence  of  no  mournful  sigh. 

Dreaming  that  all  their  dreams  were  coming  true 
Because,  forsooth,  they  heard. 

Now  loud,  now  low. 
The  pleading,  passionate  iterance  of  a  bird, — 

The  soul  of  song  in  rapturous  overflow. 


39 


Have  Melody  and  her  young  sister,  Mirth, 

Upon  this  trammeled  earth 

A  fairer  union  than  is  compassed  there 

In  yon  blue  vernal  air, 

Where  one  small  winged  atom  soaring  sings? 

Ah,  there  are  other  things 

That  stir  the  sense 

With  radiant  recompense 

For  all  the  ills  we  mortals  undergo!  — 

The  kindling  morning-glow, 
The  sight  of  eve's  first  star, 

The  glamourie 

Of  moonlight  on  the  still  breast  of  the  sea, 
The  perfume  of  the  tender  flowers  that  are 
So  compact  of  all  gracious  loveliness, — 
Yea,  these  may  bless, 
But  not  as  that  pure  voice  out-caroling 
The  symphony  of  Spring  ! 

Blue  breast  and  white  breast,  red  and  tawny  crest, 

Lo,  how  they  thrive, 
Weaving  the  upright  and  the  hanging  nest ! 
Of  joy  and  song  who  hearkens  has  no  lack. 

Ah,  how  the  heart  doth  thrill  to  be  alive, 
Now  that  the  birds  come  back  ! 


40 


The  Vale 

There  is  a  vale  where-down 

All  of  mankind  must  tread  ; 
The  king  who  wears  a  crown, 
The  low,  unlaurelled  head  ; 
And  for  a  guide 
Stalks  Pain,  the  hollow-eyed. 

But  if  there  be  to  light 

That  amaranthine  slope. 
Piercing  the  void  of  night, 
The  stars  of  Faith  and  Hope, 
The  dark,  the  deep. 
Will  be  to  us  as  sleep. 


41 


Song   for    Easter    Morning 

Along  the  wakening  valleys, 
Where  the  feet  of  Winter  trod, 

Hie  Spirit  of  Spring-time  rallies 
The  children  of  the  sod  ; 

On  the  slopes  that  were  brown  and  barren, 

As  at  touch  of  the  rod  of  Aaron, 
The  wind-flowers  sway  and  nod. 

A  waft  of  the  breath  of  Beauty 
Is  blown  o'er  the  waiting  earth  ; 

And  the  austere  face  of  Duty 
Is  touched  with  a  tender  mirth  ; 

While  the  numbing  coil  of  Trouble 

Is  burst  like  a  tenuous  bubble 
At  thought  of  the  vernal  birth. 

Aye,  back  from  the  pallid  portal 

The  stone  of  Death  is  rolled, 
And  Hope,  on  its  wings  immortal, 

Mounts  up  in  the  morning's  gold  ; 
And  life  seems  trustful  and  truthful. 
And  the  soul  is  yearning  and  youthful, 

And  naught  in  the  world  is  old  ! 


42 


The    Garth 

O  husbandman,  thou  well  shouldst  tend 
That  fair  and  fertile  garth,  thy  soul ; 

Take  gardener  Virtue  for  thy  friend. 
Lest  thou  shouldst  come  to  dole  ! 

Thou  canst  not  be  too  keen  of  sight 
To  mark  no  tares  spring  up  therein  ; 

For  wary  as  a  thief  by  night 
Is  the  dark  sower.  Sin  ! 


43 


The    Easter    Walk 

At  middle  morn,  on  Easter  day, 
I  took  the  western  hillside  way 
Above  the  woodland,  soon  to  be 
Bannered  with  vernal  pageantry. 
A  little  wind  from  out  the  south 
Breathed  lyrics  from  its  wooing  mouth, 
And  somewhere  Maestro  Robin  gave 
A  sharp  crescendo  to  his  stave. 

F'rom  slope  to  distant  greening  slope 
The  air  was  permeate  with  hope  ; 
A  tiny  rillet's  sole  employ 
Was  just  to  clearly  chorus  ''joy!  " 
And  as  I  thought,  "  Will  there  be  mine 
Of  Spring's  rebirth  some  crowning  sign? 
Lo,  in  the  moss  before  me  set 
A  tender  firstling  violet! 

Blue  as  the  bluest  sky,  this  flower 

Made  glad  my  heart  that  morning  hour. 

It  gave  unto  my  breast  to  keep 

More  than  did  all  the  earth's  vast  sweep 

So  pure  it  was,  so  without  flaw, 

I  touched  its  petals  as  in  awe, 

And  there  I  seemed  to  read  the  whole 

Of  the  renascence  of  the  soul. 


44 


The    Path 

There  is  a  path  that  I  would  lead  you  by, 
If  you  will  trust  yourself  to  me  for  guide; 
A  path  that  bends  along  the  woodland  side 

Beyond  the  churchyard,  where  the  dreamers  lie 

Dreaming  their  last  long  dream.      A  quiet  sky 
Leans  over  it,  and  grain-fields  poppy-pied 
Stretch  billowy  to  eastward,  amber-wide, 

From  where  the  forest  brethren  sway  and  sigh. 

Below  the  wood  a  stile  stands  ;   then  a  brook 
Tosses  its  unsoiled  silver  down  in  glee ; 

Next  is  a  thymy  slope  which  we  must  breast, 
Climbing  the  gradual  pathway  to  its  crest ; 
And  now  that  we  have  won  the  summit,  look  !  — 
Mysterious  as  our  human  life  —  the  sea! 


45 


The    Search 

Upon  my  heart  these  April  days 
The  longing  keen  takes  hold 

To  seek,  afar  from  trodden  ways, 
The  morn's  new-minted  gold. 

I  grasp  my  palmer's  hazel  staff, 
And  blithely  hie  me  where 

The  ariel  blue-bird's  lyric  laugh 
Goes  rippling  down  the  air. 

I  find  within  the  sky  no  flaw, 
And  all  the  earth  to  me 

Is  tuned  to  one  ecstatic  law, — 
The  law  of  harmony. 

And  rising  from  the  dewy  land 
Before  my  questing  eyes 

A  little  flower,  divinely  planned, 
In  virgin  beauty  lies  ;  — 

Plucking  this  boon  of  earth  and  air 
In  hand  and  heart  I  hold 

My  own  inalienable  share 
Of  morn's  new-minted  gold. 


46 


Among   the    Hills 

I  have  hied  me  once  again 
Far  above  the  roofs  of  men, 
Far  above  the  surf  of  strife 
Beating  on  the  reefs  of  life. 

Only  nature's  solemn  psalm 
Pulses  through  these  vasts  of  calm  ; 
Only  nature's  epic  mood 
Permeates  this  solitude. 

On  these  soaring  heights  withdrawn, 
I  am  one  with  dusk  and  dawn ; 
One  with  all  the  winds  that  are ; 
One  with  sun  and  moon  and  star. 

How  remote  all  substance  seems 
In  this  company  of  dreams  ! 
Ah,  to  dwell  with  visions  still 
On  this  heaven-lifting  hill ! 


47 


The    Healing   of   the    Wood 

To  heal  mine  aching  moods, 
Give  me  God's  virgin  woods, 
His  cloistral  solitudes, 
Where  none  intrudes  ! 

A  dim  sequestered  place, 
With  leaves  that  link  and  lace, 
Where  peace  and  primal  grace 
Meet  face  to  face. 

There  would  I  gain  heart's-ease 
From  the  sweet  calm  of  trees, 
And  the  low  melodies 
Of  birds  and  bees. 

There  would  the  balm  distill 
A  soothing  for  all  ill  ; 
With  cheerfulness  the  rill 
My  heart  would  fill. 

I  would  go  softly  thence 
With  a  far  kindlier  sense; 
With  more  benevolence. 
And  less  pretence. 

Fairer  the  sky  would  ope; 
Less  would  1,  faltering,  grope; 
But  tread  life's  onward  slope 
With  surer  hope  ! 


48 


The    Quest 

O  it's,  up  with  you,  my  comrade  !  — 

Friend  of  the  truant  will ! 
You  with  your  flute,  and  I  with  my  lute, 

We  will  foot  it  over  the  hill ! 

We  will  fare  for  a  tryst  with  morning, — 

She  of  the  golden  wing; 
And  will  learn  from  her  store  of  luring  lore 

The  canticles  of  Spring!  — 

The  wind's  call  from  the  pine-top, 
The  bird's  from  the  under  bough ; 

The  tinkle  of  shower,  and  the  sigh  of  flower. 
And  the  rillet's  silvery  vow. 

We  will  shape  them,  we  will  suit  them. 
We  will  blend  them  all,  and  then 

Back  we  will  bear  an  Orphean  air 
To  the  wondering  ears  of  men. 


49 


The    Green    o'    the    Year 

O  the  green  o'  the  year,  the  green  o'  the  year, 
When  the  blossom  bursts  on  the  jonquil-spear, 
And  the  wild-phlox  lifts  the  blue  of  its  eye 
Up  to  the  blue  of  the  brooding  sky  ; 
When  every  wafture  of  morning  brings 
A  sense  of  the  fragrant  heart  of  things ! 
O  the  world  is  sweet  and  life  is  dear 
In  this,  the  green  o'  the  year! 

O  the  green  o'  the  year,  the  green  o'  the  year. 
When  the  lyric  of  earth  is  the  song  we  hear, 
When  rapture  breathes  from  the  lowliest  weed, 
And  the  creed  of  joy  is  the  common  creed  ; 
When  nature  thrills  to  the  soul  of  the  sod 
With  the  kindling  touch  of  the  smile  of  God  ! 
O  the  world  is  sweet  and  life  is  dear 
In  this,  the  green  o'  the  year ! 


50 


Patchwork 

Some  rainbow  shreds  of  Hope  and  Joy 
Faith's  golden  stripes  without  alloy; 
Scraps  of  Ambition  bright  to  see ; 
A  few  white  threads  of  Charity ; 
Much  of  the  purple  cloth  of  Pain; 
Love's  fabric,  like  a  golden  vein 
Between  the  strands  of  Hate  and  Strife 
Such  is  the  patchwork  we  call  Life. 


51 


The    Weavers 

I'hey  sit,  each  one  at  her  loom, 
With  grave  and  averted  face ; 

Never  through  glow  or  gloom 
One  of  them  quits  her  place. 

Ceaseless  whirr  of  the  wheel ! 

Endless  shift  of  the  thread  ! 
Ever,  for  woe  or  weal, 

The  same  monotonous  tread. 

Tears  and  smiles  and  sighs, 
Fears  that  gather  and  ebb, 

Hopes,  in  their  rainbow  guise, — 
These  are  part  of  the  web. 

The  noble  aim  and  the  base. 
Love,  with  its  morning  glow, 

Hatred  and  dark  disgrace, — 
Into  the  strands  they  go! 

Never  their  toil  abates. 
Albeit  no  sound  one  hears 

Where  travail  the  solemn  Fates 
Weaving  the  web  of  the  years. 


52 


A    Legend    of    Normandy 

Deep-bowered  among  the  hills  of  Normandy, 
Where  seaward  flows  the  ever-dimpling  Seine, 

Through  billowy  meads,  the  home  of  husbandry. 
That  yearly  yield  rich  store  of  golden  grain, 
A  hamlet  lies  upon  a  little  plain; 

And  in  its  midst  a  chapel,  quaint  and  old, 
Lifts  a  slim  spire  above  its  western  door. 
Where,  in  a  niche  the  arching  entrance  o'er, 

A  figure  stands  enrobed  in  tarnished  gold. 

The  figure  of  a  stalwart  youth,  whose  hands 
Uphold  a  fainting  child,  and  whose  fair  face 

Seems  looking  far  across  the  fertile  lands 

To  some  dim  bourn  within  the  depths  of  space. 
The  Chapel  of  Saint  Pierre  the  holy  place 

Is  called  by  those  that  in  its  shadow  dwell ; 
And  of  the  youthful  saint  to  whom  they  pray 
In  trust  and  loving  reverence,  day  by  day, 

This  story  do  the  humble  peasants  tell  : 

In  years  agone  ( how  many  none  may  know ) 
Upon  the  river's  reedy  marge  lived  one 

Whose  cheeks  had  lost  joy's  soft  and  sunny  glow,- 
A  silent  woman  with  her  only  son, 
A  comely  lad,  whose  happy  days  had  run 


53 


Through  sixteen  shifting  seasons.      Strong  was  he. 
Yet  kindness  shone  within  his  truthful  eyes; 
Folk  did  not  marvel  that  his  speech  was  wise. 

For  his  calm  brow  proclaimed  nobility. 

Stretching  beyond  the  river's  restless  tide 

Were   deep    green    meadows    where   the   children 
played. 
And  plucked,  each  year,  the  blossoms  starry-eyed. 

To  twine  for  Easter  morn  a  fragrant  braid  ; 

And  thither  led,  by  ancient  arches  stayed, 
A  moss-grown  bridge,  in  immemorial  time 

Reared  by  the  hands  of  men  forgotten  long, 

Who  faded  like  the  echo  of  a  song, 
But  left  this  record  of  their  lusty  prime. 

It  was  the  morn  before  blest  Piaster  Day, 
And  in  the  cottage  garden  wandered  Pierre ; 

On  all  the  earth  an  amber  radiance  lay, 
And  musically  sweet  was  all  the  air. 
From  out  the  hamlet  had  the  children  fair 

Gone  gaily  meadow-ward  across  the  Seine, 
That  tossed  and  tumbled  by  with  angry  roar, 
And  sought  to  burst  its  curbing  bonds  of  shore, 

Dark-swollen  by  long  days  of  driving  rain. 


54 


Then  pealed  the  ringing  voice  of  one  who  cried 
And  bade  the  children  from  the  meadows  flee, 

Lest,  in  its  rage,  the  ever-rising  tide 

Should  gird  them  round  and  gulf  them  suddenly. 
So  back  they  came,  bloom-laden,  still  in  glee. 

Singing  their  simple  songs  of  merry  cheer. 
Laughing  to  see  the  waters  foam  and  surge. 
Till  all  had  reached  the  river's  nearer  verge 

Except  one  little  maid  who  knew  no  fear. 

She  on  the  bridge's  middle  buttress  stood. 
And  clapped  her  tiny  hands  to  hear  the  roar. 

And  called  aloud,  and  waved  her  ribboned  hood 
In  joyous  greeting  to  her  friends  on  shore. 
No  eye  beheld  the  archways,  smitten  sore. 

Quiver  and  part,  until  there  rose  a  sound 
As  of  a  mighty  whirlwind,  when,  in  wrath, 
It  spreads  destruction  in  its  doomed  path, 

That  stirred  the  hamlet  to  its  utmost  bound. 

Swift  river-ward  the  startled  people  ran 

Who  were  not  following  far  afield  the  plow ; 

The  woman  left  the  busy  loom,  the  man 

The  forge,  and  hasted  on,  they  recked  not  how, 
Fearing  disaster  dread,  while  every  brow 


55 


Grew  pallid,  as  before  their  straining  eyes, 
Upon  the  buttress,  with  its  crumbling  stone, 
They  saw  the  little  maiden  stand  alone, 

And  heard  her  lift  her  piteous,  pleading  cries. 

Then  sudden  through  the  palsied  throng  sprang  one 
Upon  the  wonder  of  whose  yellow  hair 

Flashed  the  full  radiance  of  the  morning  sun, 

And  in  their  midst,  with  eyes  aflame,  stood  Pierre. 
"Is  there  no  man,"  he  loudly  cried,  "will  dare 

To  brave  the  flood.''     And  are  ye  cowards  all, 
That  thus  ye  wait  in  craven  apathy. 
Like  senseless  hinds,  the  helpless  maid  to  see 

Borne  down  the  flood  beyond  your  mortal  call .'' " 

No  voice  made  answer  save  in  muttered  word, 

Or  inarticulate  murmur  'neath  the  breath ; 
But  the  chill  thought  that  every  bosom  stirred 

Shone  from  the  eyes — the  awful  fear  of  death. 

Then  lofty  scorn  swept  (so  the  story  saith ) 
Across  the  youthful  hero's  noble  face. 
"What !    lack  ye  courage,  men  of  Normandy .'^ 

Then  I,  a  boy,  will  your  exemplar  be  ! " 
He  cried,  and  darted  from  the  crowded  place. 


56 


In  vain  they  strove  his  rapid  steps  to  stay  ; 
Along  the  foaming  stream  he  swiftly  sped, 

Where  willows  leaned  above  his  dauntless  way 
Their  graceful  branches,  budding  palely  red, 
Until  at  last  he  tide-ward  turned  his  head 

To  mark  the  buttress  and  the  sobbing  child  ; 
One  prayerful  look  upon  the  sky  he  threw, 
That  o'er  him  domed  in  tenderness  its  blue. 

Then  boldly  plunged  within  the  waters  wild. 

Roused  by  his  spirit,  cheer  on  ringing  cheer 

Rose  till  there  swelled  one  grand,  applausive  cry ; 

And  now  he  saw  the  buttress  looming  near. 

Now  clutched  its  jagged  side  and  climbed  on  high, 
Now  stood  upon  its  crest  triumphantly 

To  feel  the  stones  beneath  him  reel  amain ; 
So,  clasping  tight  the  little  maid,  who  smiled 
In  trust,  a  moment  from  her  fears  beguiled, 

He  sprang  within  the  boiling  surge  again. 

From  out  the  vortex  did  he  rise  unharmed, 

Whereat  a  shout  half  drowned  the  water's  roar; 

And  many  deemed  that  Pierre's  young  life  was  charmed^ 
Seeing  him  strive  so  stanchly  for  the  shore. 
But  as  he  neared  the  longed-for  land  once  more, 


57 


While  kindly  hands  his  burden  snatched  away, 
A  sudden  mighty  billow  o'er  him  rolled, 
And  dragged  him  downward  in  its  cruel  hold 

Forever  from  the  sunny  face  of  day. 

Fleet  seasons  changed,  and  men  were  born  and  died; 

Yet  every  Easter  would  the  mothers  tell 
Of  that  brave  boy  —  the  humble  hamlet's  pride  — 

Who  gave  his  life,  and  how  the  deed  befell. 

Till  among  those  who  kept  his  memory  well 
"The  sweet  Saint  Pierre"  at  last  he  came  to  be; 

And  many  pilgrim  feet  at  Easter  sought 

The  simple  shrine  that  grateful  hands  had  wrought 
Beside  the  Seine,  swift  hasting  to  the  sea. 

Still  stands  the  shrine,  still  is  the  story  told, 
Though  silent  centuries  have  glided  by. 

Love  will  not  let  the  names  of  those  grow  old 
Who  for  their  fellows  grandly  dare  and  die  ! 
Blue  o'er  the  hamlet  leans  the  Norman  sky, 

The  bells  of  Easter  peal  adown  the  air. 

And  clear  the  children's  choiring  voices  ring 
In  reverent  greeting  to  the  Heavenly  King, 

And  in  remembrance  of  ''the  sweet  Saint  Pierre." 


58 


Life 

Sentient  from  out  the  illimitable  void, 

With  darkness  palpitant,  into  a  space 

Concave,  with  vasts  of  scintillating  blue, 

And  peopled  by  innumerable  forms, 

Was  1  cast  groping.      Overhead  an  eye 

Of  dazzling  fire  depended,  and  there  rose 

Murmurs  of  voices  multitudinous, 

And  sound  of  wind  and  waters.     Then  the  light 

Failed,  and  above  upon  the  gloom  were  pricked 

Irradiant  sparks,  and  slowly  there  upclomb 

A  luminous  spectral  disc.      Again  the  fire; 

Again  and  yet  again  the  ghostly  orb; 

And  aye  the  sound  of  voice  and  wind  and  wave  ! 

Now  was  I  stung  with  cold,  now  scorched  with  heat ; 

Now  racked  with  pain,  now  swept  with  ecstasy. 

Then  suddenly,  and  ere  I  was  aware 

What  meant  the  ceaseless  shuttle, —  the  great  void  ! 

And,  as  I  passed,  a  whisper — ''  Thatiwas  Life!" 


59 


Sorcery 

Some  cunning  spirit  of  the  night 

Has  woven  upon  an  airy  loom 
A  wonder-web,  and  stretched  this  white 

Half  penetrable  gloom 
Miraculously  from  tree  to  tree, 
Until  nor  spot  nor  space  is  free 
From  the  spun  sorcery. 

Yet  let  the  wand  of  the  lord  sun, — 
His  mighty  mace  impalpable, — 

When  he  has  done  his  orison 
Within  his  secret  orient  cell, 

But  touch  this  tissue,  midnight-wrought, 

Lo,  heaven's  blue!  —  The  spell  grows  naught 

Sudden  and  swift  as  thought. 


60 


Granther   Time 

Chime  !  chime  !  chime  ! 
Hear  old  Granther  Time, 
In  yonder  belfry  bare, 
Startling  the  air ! 

Joy  !  joy  !   joy  ! 

Thus  sounds  his  employ 

To  one 

Love-glad  beneath  the  sun. 

Tears !  tears  !  tears  ! 
These  words  another  hears, 
With  catch  of  breath, 
Brooding  o'er  death. 

Chime  !   chime  !  chime ! 
Still  shall  old  Granther  Time 
Ring  o'er  and  o'er 
Till  time  shall  be  no  more. 


61 


The   Thrall 

Aloof,  I  heard, 

The  rise  and  dip  note  of  the  oven-bird, 
Word  upon  buoyant  word, 
Rapt  music,  blithe  as  is  the  blossoming 
Of  frail  hepaticas,  trills  dropped  a-vving, 
Or  from  a  bough  a-swing 
In  the  warm  lyric  south-wind.      Little  leaves 
Rippled  in  soft  green  laughter.      Belted  thieves, 
Bent  upon  honey-plunder,  made  fleet  chase 
From  bloom  to  bloom, — 
The  cloud-white  trillium  and  squirrel's-corn. 
The  seal-o'-Solomon,  golden  as  the  morn, — 
With  breezy  boom, 
Or  low  and  dreamy  bass. 
Then  swift  I  said, 
Of  all  earth's  loveliness  enamored, 
'  Here  is  my  place  ! 
Here  will  I  linger  and  gain  lasting  grace 
From  all  this  sweet  renewal, —  the  old  lure 
Of  youth  and  joy  !     I  that  am  spent  and  poor 
Will  straight  grow  rich  and  hale  ; 
And  there  shall  naught  avail 
To  filch  from  me  my  wealth ; 


62 


No  creeping  stealth 

Shall  grasp  it  in  the  watches  of  the  night !  " 

Hence  I  abide. 

O  ye  who  would  win  healing,  heart-delight, 

Come  ye  and  look  and  list,  revivified  ! 

Slough  thy  gray  wintry  mood  ! 

Clasp  hands  with  life-renewed  ! 

Bird-voice,  brook-babble,  blossom-murmurs,  kind 

Touch  of  the  whispering  wind, 

Grass-crinkle,  bud-unfolding,  each  and  all, 

Have  been,  and  are,  and  will  be  mine  uplifting. 

Earth  hath  no  vernal  entity  so  small, 

So  subtle,  or  so  shifting. 

It  doth  not  hold  me  thrall  ! 


63 


In   Sanctuary 

Before  thou  passest  from  this  sacred  air, 

Breathe  thou  a  prayer! 

Attune  thy  spirit's  key 

To  a  rapt  harmony 

With  springing  pillar  and  the  arch  that  soars, 

Until  thy  soul  adores, — 

Uplifted  high  and  higher 

With  the  ascending  glory  of  the  spire  1 

Take  to  thine  inner  sense 

The  amber  affluence 

Poured  through  the  panes  that  shine 

As  with  a  light  divine  ! 

Quaff  thou  from  Music's  chalice  deep,  ah,  deep 

As  from  the  wells  of  Sleep  ! 

Catch  from  the  spoken  word 

A  golden  chord 

To  be  a  link  between 

Thy  soul  and  the  ineffable  Unseen  ! 

Then,  ere  thou  passest  from  the  sacred  air. 

Breathe  thou  a  prayer ! 


64 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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